The Wonder Of WooliesI've returned home, feeling ashamed of something I've just done. (No smutty thoughts, you lot at the back - I'm being serious for once.) Ashamed, because it’s something which goes against every single thing I believe in. And also because I did it without thinking.

I was waiting to pay at Woolworth's, when two check-outs became free at the same time. One was staffed by a good-looking black girl, tightly-braided hair, luscious lips, cheekbones to murder your coke-dealer for. At the check-out nearest me was a perfectly pleasant but dumpy and pasty-faced girl with a skin problem, the sort you know stays in Saturday night gorging on Haagen-Dazs and dreaming of dating DiCaprio.

Now, I don't even fancy girls, for God's sake, but guess which one I headed to? That's right. And while Lady Cheekbones sullenly took my dosh without even a "please" or "thank you", Little Miss Dumpy was all smiles and charm to her customer, cheerily wishing him a good weekend and even commenting positively on his purchases. Leaving Woolies, I knew which one I'd prefer to have as a friend.

Which got me thinking: Am I really that unthinkingly superficial, pre-programmed by the media into what is, and isn't, an acceptable idea of female beauty? And that got me thinking even more (steady on now, Stranger!): Do I work out every day at the Y for my health's sake? Or to raise my self-esteem? To get laid? A combination of all three? Or just to conform to the Muscle Mary stereotype forced on me by Boyz and Gay Times and the rest of the fag-mags?

Ooh, this is simply too much for a Saturday afternoon, so I'm heading off to the (straight) pub down the road for a Stella and think. And the next time I'm in Woolies, I know who I'm going to get to serve me.